


Ensnared

by endofthyme



Series: Witcher Works [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Captivity, First Meetings, Flirting, Happy Ending, Hearts of Stone (The Witcher 3 DLC), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Mild Sexual Content, Snark, Witcher 3 Quest: Open Sesame: The Safecracker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofthyme/pseuds/endofthyme
Summary: Quinto was a thief. Hans fulfilled bounties for coin. Can I make it any more obvious?Or: Veteran mercenary captain Hans of Cidaris was just having a drink and minding his own business one night in Oxenfurt. Then a wanted safecracker decided to hit on him, and his life suddenly got a lot more complicated.
Relationships: Hans of Cidaris/Quinto
Series: Witcher Works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046377
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Ensnared

**Author's Note:**

> Mood: writing slashfic about Witcher 3 DLC characters so obscure and unremembered that they don't even have their own tags on AO3 yet.
> 
> Look, y'all, all I have to say for myself is that Quinto cheerfully snarking at the guy who had him locked (well, 'locked') in a cage was content that was extremely targeted at my interests. Here is the result. :P

When the mercenary Hans of Cidaris stopped off at a tavern on the outskirts of Oxenfurt that evening, he hadn't expected anything out of it other than an ale or two to keep him in reasonably good spirits for the rest of the trip back to his men's encampment. He hadn't planned on staying long or speaking to anyone other than the bartender—and even then only the six words he needed to say to get himself a drink. He hadn't even bothered taking off his helmet, which should have made him seem as little approachable as possible.

So when the bench he was sitting on dipped slightly and a man—a blurred figure in his periphery with dark hair and clothing—slid in next to him and set his own mug on the tabletop, Hans didn't turn his head or otherwise react. He just kept sipping at his ale, assuming the man had simply picked an open spot at random. The tavern was doing fairly brisk business that night and he couldn't see any completely empty tables from where he was sitting, so there was only so long he could have reasonably expected to keep this table to himself. But that didn't mean the two of them couldn't mind their own business for the time it took Hans to drain the rest of his ale and get moving.

But, alas, it was not to be.

His new neighbor leaned in and craned his neck to try to catch Hans' eye, then said in a voice faintly dripping with innuendo, "What's a man like you doing in a place like this?"

The conversation at the table next to them quieted suddenly, which meant they'd picked up on the implication, too.

Hans sighed. Just his luck. Some damn fool too drunk to hold his tongue in mixed company, casting his net wide. He'd just pointedly misunderstand and hopefully the guy would get the message.

Taking another slow pull from his drink, Hans finally deigned to look in the stranger's direction. The man was the lanky sort, with short, black hair and a narrow, shaven face, in stark contrast to Hans' own beard and bulk. He was wearing a black doublet which was a fair bit nicer than what most of the other patrons of this establishment could afford, but he didn't carry himself like a noble or even a moderately well-off merchant would. Instead, he had the air of one trying very hard to claw his way up from the muck, same as the rest of them—albeit one who'd had some success at it. His brown eyes drooped at the sides, which made him look a bit more disreputable and shiftless than he might have otherwise, but as far as Hans could tell, they were keen and unclouded. Not drunk, then—just reckless.

And, Hans thought, his gaze lingering on the mole on the man's left cheek, he looked strangely familiar, even though Hans would have wagered a full purse of crowns that the two of them had never met before in their lives…

Wait, was this…?

What was a man like _him_ doing in a place like this?

Hans felt suddenly tongue-tied. He stammered something out—he wasn't sure what it was or how coherently he'd said it, but he must have managed to hold back the one thing that was buzzing in his mind, or else this scene would have already devolved into a chase.

Quinto—for it was Quinto the safecracker, the bane of bankers all over the North, who'd decided to sit down next to him— _preened,_ clearly making a wrong assumption, as though Hans had been stunned speechless by his sheer animal magnetism rather than the hundreds of crowns bounty on his capture.

"Well, it's my lucky day, then," Quinto said, grinning slyly.

Hans chuckled nervously, wondering what exactly he'd told Quinto a second ago to earn that response, and what he was expected to say now. In truth, it _hadn't_ been Quinto's lucky day, to have chosen a soldier of fortune with an eye for wanted poster sketches as his target for the night. But now Hans needed to figure out how to nab Quinto without him catching on in time to flee. Considering he'd lasted this long acting this rashly, Hans would bet anything the man could run fast, and with no backup to cut off escape routes, Hans would probably be shit out of luck if he managed to slip away. At the same time, Hans couldn't just grab him now, in the middle of the tavern. Letting several dozen people know there was an easy score to be had was just asking for trouble.

While Hans was busy furiously trying to come up with a plan of attack, Quinto nodded at his mostly-empty mug and asked, "Can I stand you the next round?"

"No, I—" was going to leave after this one, he managed to cut himself off before saying. He needed to keep Quinto here, talking, and he probably wanted the guy to down a few drinks to keep him docile for the trip. If Hans recalled correctly, Oxenfurt wasn't one of the list of places Quinto's bounty could be collected—which was probably the reason he was wandering about so complacently here—so Hans would have to haul Quinto back to camp with him tonight and figure out where and how to deliver him later. "Uh, I mean, that's not… necessary," Hans amended, feebly.

At that, Quinto's grin turned positively salacious. "Oh, _well,_ then," he said. "If you're done here, want to find someplace a bit… _quieter_ to… _chat?"_

That… could work, actually.

Hans drained the dregs of his ale and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Lead on," he said, gruffly, trying to sound only the right kind of eager.

Quinto stood and sauntered towards the door, leaving his own mug sitting there on the table, at least half-full still.

There were some mutterings behind them as they left, but Hans didn't hear anyone stand up to follow them out. Didn't mean they _wouldn't,_ though. He had to make this fast. His heart was pounding, his fight-or-flight response spiraling through him, readying him to exchange blows or give chase, whichever need arose.

Quinto led him into the alley next to the tavern. Hans was only a half-step or so behind him, unwilling to let the thief out of arm's reach.

Hans didn't have anything on him that he could use to restrain his soon-to-be captive—no shackles or cords or any other bindings—but he spied a coil of rope among the clutter festooning the tops of the various crates that were littered throughout the alley. He didn't reach for it, though. He couldn't tip his hand just yet.

They'd gotten far enough into the alley that the lights from the lanterns along the street weren't doing much to pierce the murky darkness anymore. Quinto turned suddenly, his face shaded but his eyes glittering.

The man steered him backwards until he bumped into a crate, Quinto pressing in between his legs, and—and it hadn't been the crate with the rope, of course. Though Hans thought he might _just_ be able to reach it, if he stretched. But he couldn't turn his head to see where to aim, with Quinto's lips on his.

The criminal licked into his mouth, hands suddenly everywhere. Running over his hip, his chest, going up to his neck, his head—he felt his helmet get pulled off and set aside—and then both hands were back on his hips and pulling them together more firmly, lining them up _just_ right, and Hans made a mortifying sort of noise high in his throat.

Quinto laughed. "Mmm, responsive, aren't you?" he hummed. He sounded so goddamn smug about it, too.

Hans released his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the crate behind him. His hands moved up to grab Quinto by the arms, and he shifted his weight to spin them both around, pushing Quinto down onto the next crate over.

The coil of rope was right next to them now.

Quinto was still snickering. Hans closed the distance between them himself this time, closing his mouth over Quinto's lips just to shut him up, feeling feverish. Quinto went pliant under him, and Hans definitely wasn't thinking straight anymore, because his hand went to the laces on Quinto's trousers instead of the rope, and the only thing that stopped him from taking this way further than he'd planned was the sound of voices echoing around the corner from the direction of the tavern entrance: one of them saying, "Now where the _fuck_ did they go?" and another one saying in reply, "Just check the alleys. Ain't like they're _respectable_ folk."

It had taken them awhile, but they'd decided to follow Hans and Quinto out. Whatever they wanted, it wouldn't be good.

Quinto had heard them, too. He straightened up, then made a move to stand.

Hans blocked him with one arm, and reached for the rope with the other.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Quinto hissed. He struggled against the rope as Hans wrapped it around his wrists, but Hans was good at this, and fast, too. He'd had a lot of practice.

"Arresting you," Hans said, doggedly. "Get up." He yanked Quinto upright by the upper arm—he'd have to keep a tight grip on the man to make sure he wouldn't get away.

"Arresting—?" Quinto shrilled. And then the men from the tavern came around the corner into their alley.

There were three of them—not enough to pose an insurmountable challenge to Hans were he alone, but definitely more than he could handle while holding a man captive. He put his free hand on his sword hilt, but didn't draw it just yet.

"Haha, we found 'em!" crowed the leftmost of the approaching men, his words slurred with drink. Then he stumbled to a halt, baffled by the tableau Hans and Quinto presented, having probably expected to see something more like what had been transpiring between them a minute earlier. "Huh? Wait, wha's goin' on here?"

"Some kinda depraved shit, I reckon," said the one on the right, wonderingly.

"If only," Quinto muttered under his breath.

Hans tightened his grip on the man's arm and hissed, "Quiet, you." He didn't take his eyes off the three newcomers. Aiming for friendly with a touch of steel, he said, "Hello, boys. Hans of Cidaris, soldier of fortune. I'm arresting this man for the crimes of robbery, theft, and…" He racked his brain for a third thing. He should've just said robbery and theft. "…Pilfering. 'Preciate you taking an interest, but I can take it from here."

"What? _Arresting?_ So what was all that shite in the tavern?" the guy on the right demanded.

Hans shrugged laconically. His hands were trembling a little with nerves, but they probably couldn't tell in the dim light of the alley, and he kept his voice perfectly steady. "Saw an opportunity, took it. I'm sure you boys understand. You seem like reasonable, _enterprising_ individuals, after all."

The guy in the middle, who'd been silent thus far, finally spoke up. "Enterprising, you say," he said, sounding thoughtful. The other two looked to him. Evidently, he was the leader, and he was receptive to picking up what Hans was planning to lay down.

Perfect.

"Sure," Hans said. "See, I didn't want everyone in the damn tavern to know there was a score to be had. If you can keep mum about it for tonight, I'm sure I can make it worth your while."

The leader eyed him. "Buying our silence, eh? If he's really worth that much, why shouldn't we just take him and turn him in ourselves? There's three of us and only one of you." The other two murmured aggressive agreement.

"You wanna drag him all the way to Kaedwen?" Hans fired back. "Why not let me deal with the troublesome part, and take the easy money that Lady Luck has brought you?"

 _"Kaedwen?"_ the drunkard on the left said. "Don't have time to be goin' to _Kaedwen._ Gotta take the missus to market tomorrow, 's too far," he elaborated, a bit unnecessarily, since the nearest part of Kaedwen was well over a week's journey away.

"Hm," the leader said. He considered for a moment before coming to his decision. "Fair enough, _Hans of Cidaris._ Hand over your purse— _all_ of it—and we'll look the other way. Just for today."

Fortunately, after a supply run in town and his drink in the tavern, Hans' purse was as light as it ever got. Quinto's bounty would more than cover losing it, even factoring in the cost of dragging him somewhere to collect. But it didn't do to appear too eager. _"All—?"_ he said, aiming for incredulous. When they'd all had some time to look sufficiently gleeful at his apparent reluctance, Hans let out a hiss and moved his hand from sword hilt to purse pocket, pulling his bag of crowns free and tossing it, jangling, in the men's direction. "There."

The leader caught it adeptly, then pocketed it. "Pleasure doing business, Hans. We'll split it later, boys."

They didn't move or leave, though, just kept standing there, looming in the alley, blocking the way. Hans took a glance backwards. He wasn't totally sure this alley let out anywhere.

Fine. They'd just have to sidle past. Fucking power plays from shitty assholes. Hans got enough of that on the goddamn battlefield. He nudged Quinto to get him moving and started pushing him towards the alley entrance.

Quinto stirred into motion without much resistance. But they'd only taken a few steps before the criminal halted and muttered under his breath, "Forgot your helmet."

Because, right, Quinto _had_ taken off Hans' helmet earlier, when they'd been, well, in the middle of things. Hans turned and spotted it upturned on one of the crates. He pulled Quinto backwards with him a few steps, snagged it, shoved it firmly on top of his head again, then started dragging Quinto back towards the alley entrance as though it hadn't happened.

They brushed by the leering men as they went, having to shuffle sidelong past the three rather than walking side to side. But they did get past, and Hans felt relief bubbling in his chest.

Behind them, the leader said, "And we'd best not see either of your faces 'round this part of town again."

Hans just kept them both moving and didn't look back.

They were three streets away and almost to where Hans had left his supply cart by the time Quinto finally spoke up. "That was some quick thinking back there, Hans. If that _is_ your real name," the man said, lightly. "Though I don't suppose you'll be letting me go now that we've gotten away…?"

Hans scoffed. "Got a couple hundred crowns on you, Quinto? Elsewise, no."

"Ah, well, if we just take a quick detour, I'm sure I can scrounge you up some—"

"Not a chance," Hans interrupted. "I'm not dragging you all over Oxenfurt in the middle of the night with no backup. You're coming with me, somewhere I can set a constant watch on you until we get a chance to turn you in. Now, up in the cart, hands on the front board where I can see 'em."

Quinto looked like he was considering his options, but since he didn't have any other ones, he wisely clambered up into the front of the horse-drawn cart as directed. Hans didn't let go of his arm and climbed up immediately after him, nudging him further to the side to make space. Quinto obliged, but he'd put his hands in his lap rather than where Hans had told him to put them.

"Hands up here," Hans repeated, reaching over and rapping the knuckles of his free hand on the wooden front of the cart to indicate where he meant.

Quinto moved his bound and clasped-together hands there, a little slowly. Hans squinted at them. He was holding them strangely. "What've you got there?" Hans asked, warily.

"Who, me?" Quinto asked, all innocence.

"Yes, _you._ What are you holding?" Hans reached for whatever it was, ready to wrestle it out of Quinto's grip, but Quinto's hands opened up like a flower before he got that far, presenting a small and very familiar brown purse.

"Oh, this?" Quinto said, airily. "I've no idea. Someone must have dropped it. Awfully careless of them."

Baffled, Hans said, "How did you—?" And then he remembered how close they'd gotten to those assholes in the alley as they passed. Somehow Quinto had, with his hands bound together and all those men's eyes on them, stolen back the purse Hans had tossed to them as a bribe.

Quinto shrugged modestly. "I have my ways." Then he waggled his eyebrows. "So, fancy letting me go now? Break even and go our separate ways, save you the trouble of keeping hold of me?"

"Not a chance," Hans said again, flatly, snatching the purse out of Quinto's open palms. His men had to eat. He wasn't letting an opportunity like this go that easy. He pocketed the purse—on the hip opposite from where Quinto was sitting—and then started the horses going as adeptly as he could with just one hand on the reins. Fortunately, the road was a pretty straight shot from here and the horses knew what they were doing.

He kept his grip on Quinto until they got far enough from the city that there was only the occasional building interspersed with farmlands, rather than a maze of alleys a man could get lost in. Then, secure in the knowledge that Quinto wouldn't be able to get anywhere Hans couldn't see if he made a break for it, Hans finally let go of his arm and fished under his seat for the crossbow he kept there. He loaded it with a bolt with one hand and then aimed at a scarecrow, fired, and heard the bolt thunk satisfyingly into the wooden pole inside, all in the span of about ten seconds. Then he laid the crossbow across his lap, in easy reach.

Quinto hadn't moved. His gaze was darting between the crossbow and Hans.

"Don't try to make a run for it," Hans said, to drive home the point. "This is all open fields."

Quinto cleared his throat. "Pretty sure they want me alive to tell them where their money is."

Hans shrugged. "One of the notices didn't seem too picky."

Quinto didn't try to run.

The rest of the trip back to the encampment was uneventful. He waved to the western lookout as they approached, and then pulled the horses up once they got near the perimeter. A couple other of Hans' men who'd still been awake had wandered out to greet him. "Supplies in the cart," he said, preemptively. "We can unload the stuff later, but someone deal with the horses, I'm beat. Oh, and I also brought us a nice bonus. Allow me to introduce Quinto, wanted safecracker."

Quinto did his best to bow at the waist from his seated position. "Pleasure to meet you all! Hans has told me so much about you. I'm going to be your guest for a little while, it seems."

Which, of course, confused the issue immediately. "Guest…?" asked Aldo. "Uh, does he need his own tent, boss, or…?"

"No!" Hans said, too loudly. "I mean, no, he doesn't need a tent, he's not a guest, he's a _prisoner._ A prisoner with a bounty on him. Put him in the brig." The 'brig' being a big cage they'd rescued a grateful merchant from when they'd taken a job to clear out some bandits a short while back. It was a sturdy thing, well-made, and it'd seemed a shame to waste it, so they'd kept it in case the opportunity to use it arose. And so it had.

Jannik and Wilf moved to secure Quinto with no further questions. They shuffled him out of the cart and towards the center of camp where the cage was sitting, awaiting its purpose, and then they locked him firmly inside. Jannik, logistically-minded as ever, made a comment about needing to alert the other men on watch that they had a prisoner if they hadn't heard already, and make sure someone would have eyes on him regularly. Wilf ran off to do that posthaste.

And why was Hans still hovering and watching? It was out of his hands for now, and in the hands of people he trusted implicitly. He could go to sleep and figure out next steps in the morning.

"Planning to join me, Hans?" Quinto said aloud, voice pitched to carry. "You're welcome to, of course, but we'd likely be more comfortable in your tent."

Jannik, who was still waiting nearby for the time being, blinked and looked in Hans' direction, eyebrows raised.

Hans felt his face flush crimson. "I wasn't—I'm not—" he spluttered. "I'm going to bed. Alone! Goodnight." He turned on his heel and stormed away.

He could hear Quinto's quiet snickering all the way back to his tent. It followed him into his dreams.

\---

Hans woke up annoyed. And hard. His libido wasn't too happy with him for getting it all worked up with no follow-through the previous night in the alley. He spent ten minutes soothing its wounded feelings, so to speak, before he climbed out of his tent to start going about his daily business.

When he passed Quinto's cage—not intentionally, it was just hard to avoid it, really—he found the man already awake, sitting on the floor and leaning his back up against the bars. 

Quinto watched Hans approach with eyes that seemed to see everything. "Sleep well?" he asked, and for some reason his knowing expression and the tone of his voice made Hans suddenly certain that he knew _just_ what Hans had been doing minutes ago.

 _"Fine,"_ Hans gritted out. "And yourself? Cage treating you well?"

Quinto grinned, wide and sardonic. "Marvelously. Feel like a babe in a crib."

"…Great. Glad you're enjoying yourself," Hans replied. "Now, if you don't mind…"

He'd only taken a step before Quinto interjected, "Headed to breakfast? Mind bringing me back some? I'm famished."

Hans looked at him, then looked around to see if anyone he could order to do that was up and about, but there was no one in his line of sight except one of the sentries. It was still pretty early—the sun hadn't fully risen yet. "Yeah, fine," he grumbled, starting off again in the direction of the camp's food supplies.

"Much obliged!" Quinto called after him, cheerily.

As usual, there was a large pot of gruel all ready to go, kept warm by the embers of a fire. He filled two bowls and raided the supply tent for two hunks of bread and some fruit, and carried the lot back to the center of the camp. While he'd been gone, a few more people had woken up, probably because Hans and Quinto talking had roused them. They looked to be setting up a game of dice in the open area near the cage, and greeted him as he approached.

Hans nodded back at them, but didn't stop to chat. "Here," he said gruffly, shoving Quinto's food through the bars.

"Why, thank you, Hans. That looks absolutely… adequate," Quinto said. He reached up to accept it, and his fingers ran over Hans' as he did.

Hans very carefully didn't flinch away. He just _pulled_ away, once Quinto had gotten his hands most of the way around the bowl. "Why are you still doing that?" he asked with his voice lowered, aware of the small group nearby.

"Doing what?" Quinto responded serenely.

Hans scowled down at him. "You know what. _Flirting._ I arrested you, you're in a cage. And you can't possibly think I'm going to let you out unless it's to turn you in, no matter how many eyes you try making at me."

"Never say never, Hans," Quinto said, spooning up some gruel and eyeing it critically before deigning to take a bite.

"Hmph." Hans picked up his own bread and tore a chunk out of it with his teeth. He chewed and swallowed, still looking at Quinto. There was something else he'd been wondering about, too. "Fine, don't tell me. How about this one: why did you try for _me_ of all people back in the tavern?" There had to have been safer bets. He'd been wearing a helmet and a sword and non-regulation armor—there couldn't have been very many people there who looked more like they were swords-for-hire or bounty-hunters than Hans had. Quinto knew there was a price out on him—he shouldn't have been hitting on armed men in taverns with dubious clientele.

Quinto had set down the bowl of gruel and picked up the apple Hans had handed him. He shined it briefly on his shirt before taking a large bite out of it, and then he made an expansive gesture with it. "Oh, just good instincts," he said—an absurd falsehood. "I've a talent for locked doors in need of… finessing. Safes, chests… closets…" His eyes raked over Hans from head to toe as he said it.

Hans blinked. "What? I'm—I'm not in the fucking _closet."_

Quinto shook his head and sighed. "Oh, Hans, surely we can be honest with one another, after what we shared in that alley!" He tapped the side of his nose. "I'm never wrong about these things. That wasn't a ploy to capture me—well, not _all_ a ploy at any rate—I mean, you were _panting_ for it."

Hans breathed through his nose. He set his food down on a nearby crate, then squatted next to the bars of Quinto's cage. "I'm not _in the closet,"_ he repeated, slowly. And then, because Quinto's expression was still a mixture of blank incomprehension and smug self-absorption, he reached in to drag the man's face to the bars by his collar and he planted a searing kiss on his lips.

Quinto was all stiff shock for a moment before he melted into it, which also happened to be the amount of time it took for Hans' men to react, with the raucous catcalls that were their wont. They were definitely going to wake up the rest of the camp. Why had he done this, again? And why was he _still_ doing it?

"Hey, Hans, no trying out the merchandise!" crowed Mirko's voice, then there was a clang of metal on metal—probably someone's gauntlet hitting his helmet, which was a common response to Mirko speaking—and Lenn's voice hissed, "Shut your damn trap, Mirk."

Hans and Quinto broke apart, panting. They'd both ended up on their knees from their original respective squatting and seated positions, from trying to get closer to the bars. Quinto had dropped his apple. It was resting next to his shin.

 _"Please_ try out the merchandise," Quinto said, still breathing hard, his voice a register deeper than it usually was and his eyes filled with heat.

And Hans was almost tempted. His gaze dropped to Quinto's reddened lips and the slightly abraded skin around them, a mark left by Hans' beard. He could unlock the cell door, take Quinto back to his tent, spend a few hours seeing what other marks he could leave on Quinto and getting this desperation out of his system, and then he could send the thief on his way, neither of them the worse off since yesterday—no money gained, but none lost either. No one here would stop Hans or go against his word. It would be so easy.

But there was a line, and he'd never crossed it.

"Sorry," he said gruffly, pushing himself up to his feet. "I don't fuck wanted men." And then he snatched up his breakfast and walked away and didn't look back, not at the whispering of bystanders, nor at Quinto's absolute silence.

The next two days were perfectly routine. Hans went about his business, keeping his men in fighting trim, sending a handful of them out to deal with a pack of wolves that were menacing a nearby mill town and causing trouble for a rich trader who was willing to pay good money to have it solved, that sort of thing. He greeted Quinto politely but distantly whenever he passed the criminal's cage, and he pointedly ignored all the flagrant overtures the man continued throwing at him. He'd determined that he could spare three people for the couple of weeks it would take them to get Quinto to Kaedwen and return with the bounty, which should be enough people to both watch him and turn away the typical threats. Probably Aldo, Kurt, and… maybe Gill? The boy was still young, but this would be a good opportunity for him to show he could handle himself.

Hans shut down with prejudice the voice in the back of his head that was trying to convince him that _he_ should go along. A quick trip into Oxenfurt was one thing—disappearing to Kaedwen for weeks was quite another. He was needed here. He couldn't be traipsing off for no damn reason except to waste even more of his time getting constantly prodded and teased by a man he was going to turn in for money.

Yeah, Gill would have to do.

He was heading over to tell Quinto of the decision when he rounded a tent and spotted a mane of white hair and a familiar, scarred face. That fucking witcher was back, and he was chatting with Quinto.

The witcher didn't seem to know the details of the bounty, which meant he wanted Quinto for his skills in the safecracking department. And if a witcher was involved, it had to be a dangerous sort of enterprise. Quinto didn't seem concerned about the idea. Before he'd gotten to know the man, Hans would have guessed that Quinto just wanted out of the cage and would ditch the witcher first chance he got, like a sensible person would, but Quinto hadn't shown much in the way of self-preservation instincts up until now, aside from a healthy wariness of a crossbow bolt to the back.

But if Quinto wanted to get himself killed on some criminal misadventure, it was no business of Hans'. Hans might as well eke as much coin as he could out of the witcher for Quinto's release and save his men the trip to Kaedwen.

Then, naturally, Quinto needled him incessantly all the way through losing to the witcher at two of three rounds of double-or-nothing gwent.

Grinding his teeth, Hans climbed to his feet, leaving his deck scattered on the ground. "Get him out of here, before I fucking burst a—"

The cage door swung open.

Hans stared at Quinto. "Wha…? How did you—?"

"Fishbone," Quinto said, offhandedly, ambling out of the cage that he apparently hadn't been trapped in after all. "Did it yesterday. I was waiting for a lull to slip out. Witcher showed up before I could."

Hans was speechless. Earlier, he'd been on his way to tell Quinto he'd be on the road to Kaedwen tomorrow. That would've meant Quinto would've known his window for escaping this particular cage was closing. He'd have slipped away tonight, probably.

It was just as well Hans had spectacularly lost that game of gwent, then. He was left no more empty-handed than he likely would have been tomorrow. Fucking hell. No wonder Quinto had been so imperturbable about his situation, if he could get out of it with a damn fishbone. Hans had brought Quinto that fish himself. He'd thought Quinto would enjoy it, and hadn't thought further than that. More fool him.

Hans turned without a word and stormed away. He didn't make eye contact with any of his men as he passed them by, and he didn't stop until he was in his tent, alone.

He pulled off his weapons and his helmet, then flopped down onto his bedroll and glared at the gently-swaying fabric ceiling. Minutes passed, and he felt himself getting progressively more annoyed, not less.

Then he heard the rustling noise of someone working at the tent flap. "Whatever it is, it better be fucking important," he snarled, and then his face went slack with surprise when Quinto slipped inside.

Hans' tent was a reasonably large one. Not huge, but plenty large enough for two people. Some of Hans' men had the sort of tent only one person, and a skinny one at that, could fit into, but Hans had the privilege of command—offset somewhat by how a fair bit of the extra space in the tent was occupied by a low kneeling desk, which he needed so he could write messages to the people who hired his mercenary band.

But it wasn't the desk that was making Hans feel like the tent was suddenly too small.

Quinto held up a deck of gwent cards. "You forgot these," he said.

Hans set his jaw. He didn't reach for them. "Someone would've gotten them to me eventually."

"Ah. Suppose so." Quinto made an aborted move to hand them over, but abruptly reconsidered and turned to place them on top of Hans' desk.

"Is that all?" Hans asked, flatly.

"I wanted to say sorry. For making fun of you so much," Quinto said, hurriedly, like something was chasing the words out of his mouth. And then he immediately ruined it by adding, "You just look so cute when you're flustered."

Why the hell was he _still_ flirting? He was free to go. And he _wasn't_ free to stay. "Get out. If you're still here in five fucking minutes, I'm dragging you to Kaedwen myself," he ground out.

"Five minutes?" Quinto said. "Difficult, but I do love a challenge."

"What—" Hans started, only to be cut off by Quinto's lips on his. He didn't say anything more for a while. He just gasped for breath whenever he needed air and lay back and let Quinto open up both their trousers and slide in close and get his hand around both their pricks, jerking them off efficiently, his other hand a vice around the back of Hans' neck.

Hans squeezed his eyes shut as he came harder than he had in years from just a hand and a cock rubbing and thrusting against his, and when he opened them again, Quinto was kneeling over him, emanating sweaty, smug satisfaction.

He'd come on Hans' shirt. That was going to be embarrassing to deal with. Though, some of it was probably Hans', too.

"So. What was that about not fucking wanted men?" Quinto inquired, grinding down on Hans' lap and making the mercenary shudder and groan, too sensitive still to bear it quietly.

"Haven't fucked any," Hans said stubbornly, fully aware this was a technicality at best. "Get off me." He shoved at Quinto's hips with his hands and then tried to scramble out from under him. He managed it, but he also bashed his elbow hard into one of the legs of his desk in the process. "Fucking hell," he swore, clutching at it.

Quinto clucked his tongue sympathetically, or in a mockery of sympathy, Hans had no idea anymore. "Not much space for anything creative in here, Hans. We'll have to find someplace with a proper bed next time."

"There's not going to be a next time, and you fucking know it," Hans growled, pushing himself upright. "Put your cock away and get the fuck out. You've overstayed your welcome."

Quinto's mouth twisted and, for a long moment, he didn't do anything or say anything back. Just looked at Hans with an unreadable expression. Then he laced up his trousers with nimble fingers, stood to the stooped height the tent would allow him, and turned to reach for the tent flap. He hesitated, though, on the cusp of opening it, just standing there with his back to Hans.

 _"Go,"_ Hans said, putting everything he had behind it.

Quinto went.

Hans was alone again. He buried his face in his hands, and just breathed in and out.

\---

Life went on. Hans had a job to do, and he did it. He ignored his men's whispers and their meaningful glances. What the fuck did they know, anyway? He'd barely known the man three days. He was fine.

A bit over a week later, he made another supply run to Oxenfurt, because he'd be damned if he'd let any of this change his habits. He stopped off to drink at a tavern—a different one, but still a mistake. He was on edge the whole time, half expecting Quinto to sidle up with a shitty pick-up line and a winning smile. But that wasn't what happened.

Instead, Hans overheard some scandalized gossip about an attempted robbery at Borsodi's, featuring a standoff with the Oxenfurt guards, and he thought of Quinto and that damned witcher. Apparently, Horst Borsodi was insisting nothing had actually been stolen, that the auction house's vault was impregnable, that the attempt had failed and been dealt with. Hans wondered what it meant to 'deal with' people whose robbery attempt had failed.

It didn't help that one of the barmaids was insisting up and down that her brother had seen them cart a body out of Borsodi's that day. Someone with dark hair.

Hans drained the remainder of his mug of ale, and called for another.

Afterwards, his feet carried him through the darkened streets to one of the boards of wanted notices in that part of Oxenfurt, nearby Novigrad Gate. He remembered Quinto's sketch being a constant presence on this one, refreshed every few weeks like clockwork while others came and went. It had seemed like the man was uncatchable, or at least good at staying out of sight, up until the moment he'd sat down next to Hans in that tavern.

But his wanted poster wasn't there anymore.

It felt like a confirmation.

He turned away and started trudging back towards his supply cart. It occurred to him, distantly, that he was near Borsodi's auction house right then. Not two streets away from the place where Quinto might've breathed his last.

He'd always tried not to regret things in his life too much, but… he regretted this. He regretted driving Quinto away. He regretted not telling him… to be careful. To be safe. He regretted not telling Quinto that he… he wasn't sure what. But he regretted it.

And then from behind him came the sound of feet pounding on the cobbles, accompanied by a voice shouting, "Hans!"

Hans froze. Slowly, he turned around, hardly daring to believe his ears.

Quinto skidded to a halt in front of him, his short, dark hair mussed and his cheeks flushed from running. He was panting hard and grinning wide.

Hans felt a wave of relief and a wave of fury crash into each other with him trapped in the middle. "What are you _thinking?"_ he hissed. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself arrested again?" His hands were twitching to reach out and grab Quinto, but Hans had no fucking clue if it was a desire to capture him or a desire to touch him that was motivating them. Maybe it was both. Either way, Hans held himself back.

Quinto, heedless of Hans' struggle, took another step forward. "I've reformed!" he declared, jovially. "No bounty on my head anymore, anywhere, on Melitele's honor. My new patron handled it."

"Patron…?" Hans repeated, adrift. "What, you're not a safecracker anymore…?"

"Well." Quinto coughed. And then he fixed Hans with laughing eyes and leaned in close as though imparting a secret. "Not a _wanted_ safecracker anymore." Then the laughter in his expression faded a little, and he didn't say anything more. Just stood there, waiting for Hans' answer.

And there wasn't any other choice, really.

Hans stepped forward and reached up a hand, pressing his palm to Quinto's cheek. Quinto immediately reached up his own hand, to hold it there.

"Last time," Hans started, gruffly, "you said something about a bed."

Quinto was grinning again, absolutely alight, and Hans had to lean in and kiss him, hard, right there in the street. Quinto kissed him back with a fervor for a few seconds, then abruptly broke away. One of his hands wrapped itself around Hans' arm, and Hans let himself be led through the city, wondering all the while at the strange turnabout they'd taken—Hans captured and dragged along by Quinto instead of the reverse.

He could've broken free, but he didn't want to. The warmth of Quinto's hand through his sleeve felt like a promise. One he might just be able to believe. And he wanted to see where this, all of this, would go. He let out a breathless laugh, and when Quinto glanced back at him in inquiry, he just shook his head and smiled contentedly and nudged Quinto onward, to wherever it was he wanted to take them.


End file.
